Futile
by Penelope-Z
Summary: *Warning:RL/SB slash* Sirius and Remus meet again after the Triwizard and there is tea, moonlight and ripping skin but it was all futile after all.


A/N and Warning: I've rated this story R due to a Remus/Sirius slash pairing. Please don't read this fic if you are not comfortable with the idea of a same sex romantic pairing.  
  
  
  
Title: Futile  
  
Author: Penelope-Z  
  
Rating: R  
  
Archive: You want it? All yours. Just send a me a link to your site first.  
  
Disclaimer: Everything is the property of J.K. Rowling. I'm just a humble dog not even worthy of dusting her shoes.  
  
  
  
  
  
Futile  
  
  
  
He is here and so am I.  
  
Dumbledore owled me a couple of days ago, warning me that he would arrive soon, bringing urgent messages about Voldemort, Harry, Hogwarts and whatnot. I can see that he wanted it to be a surprise, a mischievous glow faded from his eyes when he saw that mine didn't widen with surprise.  
  
We stand speechless, facing one another through the iron bars of the garden gate. Minutes, hours crawl by, suffocating in complete silence as we carefully assess each other, counting the changes that time has bestowed upon us. It is so quiet I can hear the breath of the moist earth beneath our feet, the trickle of moonlight on our shoulders. The moon is kind to me tonight, dying my hair and face golden and he won't see how I've aged, how my face is lined with years of worry, he won't see my white hair, those streaks of pain across my scalp.  
  
I could pretend I am a child again, wandering in the peaceful night, and there was no wolf, no teeth, no nails, no ripping skin, no breaking ribs, no bleeding tears, no hunger, no despair, no black. I could. But I know better than that.  
  
I open the gate and let him in, into my house, my little humble abode. I lead the way to the kitchenette, stacks of dirty dishes on the sink, leftovers from dinner. My fingers are trembling as I search for teebags and put the kettle to boil.  
  
'Cream and sugar?' I ask but he grabs me with impatient hands, tearing the collar of my robes away. My best robes, what am I supposed to wear at work tomorrow? The teapot hits the floor with a loud crash, the boiling water scorches my hands, I mumble angry curses under my breath.  
  
The sugarcubes fall, they crunch underfoot as he pulls me closer and his lips flutter over my collarbone, my jaw, my cheek, before his hot mouth finds mine, two fierce wolves, two ravenous beasts battling for dominance. He still tastes of storm and angry oceans. We stumble in the dark corridor, blindly fighting with our clothes and each other, feeling our way to the bedroom.  
  
He does not speak a single word, not one promise, not one confession, not one command as we collapse on the mattress and the rickety old bed creaks dangerously under our weight.  
  
But what is there to say? All the words he had he wasted, in passionate declarations and breathless pleads, in poems and letters scribbled on rose- scented paper that he used to slip into my pockets, in my schoolbag, under my pillow. Seven long years at Hogwarts he spoke and never heard a word I said.  
  
Werewolves mate for life. The travesty of it, the mockery.  
  
Lovers I had plenty. Is he supposed to be my mate? Or perhaps Severus, who shoved me roughly in dark corners, choking me with his foul taste, licking inside my skull? Severus, always seeking another wide eyed-victim to dominate, confusing possession with love. Or James, pretty golden James, who held me tightly one drunken evening after a full moon left me exhausted, helpless under his caresses? James, always seeking another wide- eyed victim to protect, confusing pity with love.  
  
My tattered robes last longer than my partners. They all leave, they all go and I'm the one forever left behind. I should be grateful for those few nights, smudges of light in the wasteland of my life. But the bride waiting by the altar has the face of a wolf, and her kiss is a wound.  
  
It's easy even for the least imaginative to understand what happens next in the hot darkness of the bedroom. A tangle of limbs me and him, wet tufts of hair brushing on my bare chest, sweet spit and a taste of blood, a shiver and a moan, I come, he comes and then it's all over.  
  
But this cheap whisper of skin, this heavy mattress soaked in sweat, this coppery scent of sex in the air, this is not what I've longed for, this is not what I need. Wait for a minute, don't fall asleep, not yet. I have words for you Sirius, if you would care to listen.  
  
Do you know, that every empty ashen night is a tomb? A black sea where I drown, choking in my memories and my own self, until the waves wash me to the shore in the morning, a grey swollen corpse, his mouth full of seaweed and salt. Do you know that every full moon is a Crucifixion, nails hammering into my palms and feet?  
  
Resurrect me with your voice, call my name again in the darkness. The moonlight, filtered through dusty window shades is a silent witness that you are here. I can see the pale shape of your profile, the straight line of the nose, the curve of the lips, the jaw, silhouetted against the shiny nothingness of the night.  
  
Don't sleep yet. Do you know that if for a minute, for a minute you could share your heartbeats with mine it would be a small solace? Don't turn away, give me your damp breath on my cheek, oxygen for the vicious years stretching ahead.  
  
But he is already asleep. I close my eyelids and under the quiet night I can hear my body singing where his fingernails trailed patterns on my heated skin. But the melody is tuneless, the melody is hollow and this hour is slipping through my fingers like rain, burning out like a cigarette stub.  
  
I shift my body closer to his, I bury my face in his long hair, my lips seek the curve of his neck, he sighs sleepily and for a moment I can allow myself to think that this... could be a salvation.  
  
But he dreams someone else's dreams, the lightbulb is burned, the door creaks and I can cry no more.  
  
  
  
The end 


End file.
